‘I cannot tell you, sir,’ he replied, in a voice much more measured than I expected, ‘but it is for the best, I do assure you.’ He nodded, touched the brim of his hat and walked briskly on. I watched him until he turned into the first side street and disappeared. The moment he was gone, I felt as if I had been in the presence of an apparition.
I returned to my room, packed my few things into my overnight bag, settled my bill (which was far smaller than it should have been) and, at twelve noon, as the clock struck, found Oscar lounging in the hotel foyer, with his hat and coat across his lap, ready to set off for our picnic in Paradise Walk. He was wearing a suit of charcoal grey, and sporting a purple bow tie, loosely worn, with an amaryllis buttonhole to match.
‘You’re dressed in your Sunday best,’ I said admiringly.
‘It’s a picnic in honour of royalty,’ he replied, rising slowly from the couch and taking a bow. ‘I’m glad you approve.’ He held out his arm. ‘Feel the quality of the cloth, Arthur. It’s from Kashmir. Made entirely of goats’ hair, if you please. But doesn’t smell of goat at all.’ He giggled. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
It was certainly soft to the touch.
‘And you,’ he continued, looking me up and down with a doubtful eye, ‘appear to be wearing exactly what you were wearing yesterday.’
‘The shirt is fresh,’ I protested.
‘And are you going somewhere?’ He prodded my bag with his ebony cane. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘I’m going home after lunch, Oscar. I must. You know that.’
‘You haven’t paid your bill, have you?’
‘I’ve tried, but I fear you anticipated me. You must let me know what I owe you.’
‘You should not have paid your bill, Arthur.’ He waved his cane at me reprovingly. ‘It is only by not paying one’s bills that one can hope to live in the memory of the commercial classes.’ He smiled. ‘I never pay my bills – on principle.’
‘But you appear to have paid most of mine,’ I protested.
He laughed. ‘That is different. I’ve involved you in this business. I should take care of any expenses that you might incur in the process.’ He donned his hat and turned towards the door. ‘Our carriage awaits. Bring your bag if you must. I don’t know how you can consider abandoning the field as we stand on the very brink of victory, but there it is. En avant! To be late today really would be lese-majesty.’
When we were ensconced in the back of the two-wheeler and on our way to Chelsea, I looked at my friend as he sucked happily on his Turkish cigarette and observed, ‘You seem remarkably mellow this morning, Oscar.’
‘I had a good dinner. Constance was charming. Willie was almost bearable. And I’m thinking we can eliminate Walter Wellbeloved from our inquiries. He is a sentimental milksop and virtually a vegetarian.’
‘I thought he believed in human sacrifice.’
‘Only when “absolutely necessary” to appease the gods – and in his experience, apparently, it has never been remotely necessary. At all the rituals he masterminds it seems the gods are quite satisfied with a standard Old English hen – well plucked and lightly broiled.’
‘He eats chicken, then?’
‘No, that’s what he offers up to the gods. He doesn’t touch meat himself. And he confessed, when we were well into the third bottle of Mr Kettner’s finest Meursault, that whatever he might have said in the past to impress young acolytes, he has never even seen a chalice of human blood, let alone drunk from one.’ Oscar grinned at me mischievously. ‘And the poor fellow’s gone off fish entirely since he lost his beloved mermaid.’
‘The hapless Rosie? Do you think he drowned her?’
‘It’s possible – they were alone at sea together in a beautiful pea-green boat. But why would he? It’s clear that he loved her and she – poor deformed creature – doted on him. He misses her dreadfully and Mrs Mathers, for all her psychic prowess, is no substitute.’
‘He’s an odd one, all the same. And known to have been in and around Whitechapel at the time of each the Ripper murders.’
‘Indeed – but the same could be said of so many. Our thespian friend, Mr Richard Mansfield, among them . . . ’ Oscar turned eagerly towards me. I was amused to see him so relishing our conversation. ‘What did you make of Mansfield, Arthur?’
‘He’s a fine actor.’
‘Undeniably. One of the best. But what of the man?’
‘I was confused. As I recall, the first time we encountered him he was consumed with rage and about to beat you black and blue. But at Sims’ party and yesterday at the theatre . . . ’
‘Yes,’ Oscar chortled. ‘He could not have been friendlier, could he? It was as if, having shown us his Mr Hyde, he was determined we should see his Dr Jekyll.’
‘Of course, you disarmed him at the theatre with your avalanche of praise.’
‘Women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the sexes. But even before I spoke, he was wanting to endear himself to us. He had the champagne open and the signed photographs waiting.’
‘He certainly gave the impression of being pleased to see us.’
‘Giving a convincing impression is, of course, the actor’s stock-in-trade. But I agree. And he would have been pleased to see Willie. He likes Willie.’
‘How so?’
‘Willie is a critic – of sorts – and his notices of Mansfield’s work have always been generous to a fault. Unqualified praise is all an actor ever really wants.’
There was a pause, and it was a comfortable one, so I asked the question that had long puzzled me: ‘What is your problem with your brother, Oscar?’
His reply came without hesitation. ‘My problem with him is his problem with me. Willie envies me, Arthur, and envy is the ugliest of sins. It twists men’s mouths and tortures their souls. In Willie’s case, it also drives them to drink. He was a good-looking child. Look at him now. I have a horror of ugliness.’ He took a deep breath and contemplated the dying embers of his Turkish cigarette. ‘It is a beautiful day,’ he said, turning to look out of the window. We were now on the Chelsea Embankment, not far from our destination. ‘We should talk of beautiful things.’
‘Tell me about our hosts,’ I said.
‘Festing Fitzmaurice and Sir Frederick Bunbury? They’re hardly beautiful, but they are amusing and that’s the next best thing.’ Oscar looked directly at me and I saw the devil had entered his eye. He lit another cigarette and grinned as he extinguished his match with a small flourish. ‘You don’t know the story of Festing Fitzmaurice?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’
‘Festing Fitzmaurice was a courtier – long-serving and much loved, a particular favourite of the Princess of Wales until . . . ’ Oscar removed a speck of tobacco from his lip.
‘Until?’
‘Until he was caught buggering a goat.’
‘Good God,’ I spluttered. ‘Can this be true?’
‘All too true, alas.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, eight, ten years ago.’
‘Couldn’t it have been hushed up?’
‘Not really. It was the Princess of Wales who caught him. She found him in flagrante in the royal stables at Windsor. Unfortunately, there were two ladies-in-waiting with her, an equerry and a stable lad. Even more unfortunately, it was a male goat and the regimental mascot of the Prince of Wales’s 3rd Dragoon Guards to boot – a descendant of one of the goats brought back from the regiment’s triumphant tour of India in the sixties. Come to think of it, the poor animal was probably a forebear of the goat that supplied the wool for my suit.’ Oscar burst out laughing. ‘I’m even more appropriately dressed for the picnic than I realised!’
‘What an extraordinary tale,’ I said.
‘Yes, too good not to retell. I’m sure Her Royal Highness never breathed a word, but ladies-in-waiting, equerries and stable lads all live by gossip. Festing knew that. He was a dreadful gossip himself. He fle
d at once – he had no choice. He withdrew immediately – first from the goat, then from the castle. He was gone within the hour. He paid a high price for his passion.’
‘It was a perversion, Oscar.’
‘To him, it was a passion – and it cost him his place, his position in the world, his grace and favour lodging, everything. One day he was sitting pretty at the court of Queen Victoria. The next he was an outcast, eking out an existence of sorts in a wretched room in a backwater in Chelsea.’ Oscar looked out of the carriage window once more. We had reached Fitzmaurice’s address. ‘Here we are. As you can see, the poor fellow lives above a pigsty.’
Paradise Walk was a bleak thoroughfare, part city road, part country track, where ramshackle dwellings and outbuildings for livestock butted against one another, providing a community of sorts for the human flotsam that washes up on the shore of many a great metropolis. Lithuanians, Russians, Poles, latter-day Dick Whittingtons from all corners of the British Isles who had failed to find the streets of London paved with gold lived here in squalor, feeding off what food their animals provided and drinking whatever alcohol came their way. It was exactly parallel with Tite Street, where the Wildes and Melville Macnaghten had their fine houses, but there was nothing remotely appealing about Paradise Walk – other than its name. We stepped down from the two-wheeler onto muddy ground, littered with the detritus of poverty: dirty, sodden hay; broken bottles; filthy rags; strewn newspapers trampled into the ground. The stench of animal ordure filled our nostrils.
‘I call it “a wretched room”,’ Oscar continued, wincing at the stink that assailed us. ‘I’ve never been inside before. I just see Festing now and then in the street – and greet him for old times’ sake. I suppose that’s why we’re here now. To be friends to the fallen.’
‘Why is Bunbury here?’
‘Freddie and Festing were close – and Freddie’s a decent fellow. The best of the Old School. Most of the court abandoned Festing altogether, but Freddie didn’t. They shared a special affection for the Princess of Wales’s eldest son. When he was a boy, they were charged with keeping an eye on young Prince Eddy.’
‘Perhaps they share a secret?’ I pondered, looking up at the grimy tenement building that loomed over us.
‘And if they do,’ said Oscar, bracing himself as he made to lead the way, ‘we shall uncover it.’ My friend looked at me and smiled grimly. ‘I need you on board for this, Arthur. I’m glad you’re here.’
Using his cane, he pushed open the wooden gate that took us from the public path into the yard that led to the building itself. The pigsty – three stinking stalls covered with a dilapidated roof and containing a sad-looking swine asleep in its own mess – stood like a guardhouse alongside the front door. Oscar pushed at the door with his cane. It was unlatched and opened onto a dark and filthy stone stairwell. Together we stepped inside. ‘Festing’s room is on the first landing, I believe.’
‘It is indeed,’ called out a thin, fluting voice from above us. We looked up the stairway and there, just visible in the half-light, leaning over the iron banister, we saw the drooping figure of Sir Frederick Bunbury, Bt., his tortoise head nodding like a metronome.
‘Good to see you, Sir Freddie,’ cried Oscar amiably. He began to trudge up the steps. I followed. ‘Actually, I can only just see you in the gloom. But perhaps the gloom’s a blessing. Paradise Walk this may be, but the staircase to heaven this ain’t.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ drawled the baronet. He patted Oscar on the shoulder by way of welcome. He felt the quality of Oscar’s suiting with evident pleasure. ‘I’m glad you’ve dressed for the occasion. I have, too.’
‘So I see,’ exclaimed Oscar, stepping back in wonder.
I shook the elderly courtier’s languid hand. He was costumed in full court attire: tail-coat, waistcoat, breeches, lace cuffs, lace jabot, silk stockings, buckled shoes, cocked hat, white gloves and sword. He noticed me noticing it. ‘It’s Prince Eddy’s sword,’ he said proudly. He gestured towards the open doorway leading to what I assumed were Festing Fitzmaurice’s quarters. The room was lit by candles. ‘Festing’s dressed for the occasion, also – as you can see.’
We could indeed. Festing Fitzmaurice was standing in the middle of his room, holding a posy of paper flowers and wearing a full-length pink taffeta ball gown, once the property of HRH Princess Alexandra, Princess of Wales.
‘The jewellery’s paste, of course,’ drawled Sir Freddie, nodding happily, ‘but Festing’s the real thing, you must agree.’
32
A toast to Prince Eddy
Oscar rose to the moment magnificently. He stepped into the room, spread his arms wide and, with a voice full of warmth and admiration, declared: ‘What a wonderful way to salute Prince Eddy on his birthday – as the mother he loved so well.’
‘You understand, Oscar,’ trilled Sir Freddie joyfully. ‘I knew you would. That’s why I wanted you to be here. And your friend, of course.’ He smiled at me with his hooded eyes. ‘We shall have fireworks later. I have saved some from Her Majesty’s golden jubilee. And we have costumes for you both.’
‘Is it just us?’ enquired Oscar.
‘Just you,’ replied Sir Freddie. ‘You’ll have the pick of the wardrobe.’
‘Sadly, we can’t stay long,’ countered Oscar swiftly. ‘We won’t have time to change – alas.’
‘Pity,’ said Sir Freddie mournfully. At George R. Sims’ reception on Saturday night, he had reminded me of Lewis Carroll’s creation, the White Knight. Today he was Cervantes’ Don Quixote – the knight of the woeful countenance. He stroked his dangling moustaches and gazed sadly at the ground.
‘A great pity,’ echoed Oscar. ‘My friend Conan Doyle does a charming turn as Salome. His dance of the seven veils is something to be seen!’
Sir Freddie rallied and winked as he looked up at me. ‘I can believe it.’ The old gentleman now fixed his gaze on me admiringly. ‘Did you ever serve in Africa, sir?’ he asked.
‘Tell him, Arthur,’ said Oscar, relishing my embarrassment.
‘Well . . . ’ I hesitated. ‘I was a ship’s surgeon on the SS Mayumba during a voyage to the West African coast.’
‘Ah.’ Sir Freddie nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘A sailor. Rum, bum and the concertina, eh? If you’d brought your squeeze-box we could have had some music. Festing loves to dance.’
‘Does he not speak these days?’ enquired Oscar, appraising Mr Fitzmaurice who I realised now was standing like a statue within an arc of candles laid before him on the floor as footlights. He did not move – or make a sound – but his watery eyes sparkled in the candlelight and his rouged lips trembled gently.
‘Very little. Not at all, really. There’s nothing left to say. I think he still hears. I sing to him sometimes. He still sees – though he doesn’t read any more. We’re winding down, both of us. Gradually putting out the lights, shutting up shop. It’s over for us now. Time’s up. Business done.’
‘And done well?’ asked Oscar.
‘In the end, yes,’ said Sir Freddie solemnly. ‘I believe so.’ He smiled at Oscar. ‘We’re determined to go out with a bang, you know.’
‘And why not?’ said Oscar, returning the old man’s smile.
I looked around the room. There were shutters over the window; the floorboards were uncarpeted; the walls were bare. There was a mantelpiece above the fire grate and on it three photographs in ornate frames. I recognised Queen Victoria and the Prince and Princess of Wales. I assumed the third portrait was of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale: there was a sprig of rosemary set by it.
There was a curious odour in the atmosphere – not the foul stench of the street below, something sweeter. Was it rosemary or lavender? Or a fragrance that Festing Fitzmaurice used to disguise the stink of the neighbourhood? It was familiar, but I could not place it.
I saw Oscar glance over towards the narrow single bed that stood in the corner of the room: there were no chairs that I could see, no sofa or divan. Draped ov
er the end of the iron bedstead was an array of ladies’ clothes – dresses, undergarments, petticoats, coats, hats and shawls.
‘Does Festing have quite a selection from Her Royal Highness’s wardrobe?’ asked Oscar lightly.
‘Oh no, only cast-offs and hand-me-downs, nothing stolen – items given to him by the princess. And some servants’ garments as well – workaday dresses and suchlike. Something for all occasions. They’re mostly the worse for wear now, threadbare, moth-eaten. We’ve been clearing out the wardrobe, burning what pieces Festing can bare to be parted from. My dear wife used to mend and launder everything for him – until she lost her mind.’
‘I never knew her,’ murmured Oscar.
‘Few did,’ answered Sir Freddie. ‘She was not much at court. And I was away travelling with the prince so much. She stayed at home in Yorkshire. She was not one for the royal round. She was not nobly born – but she was a lady in my eyes. Always.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So beautiful when young – a little like your wife, Oscar, if I may say so. Gamine. But pitiful at the end – when her mind went. You understand?’
‘I understand,’ said Oscar.
Suddenly, Festing Fitzmaurice moved. In one movement, like the automated doll on a musical box, he twisted his whole body so that it faced the fireplace. With a separate jerk of his head, he fixed his eyes on the portrait of Prince Eddy.
‘Oh, yes,’ cried Sir Freddie. ‘It’ll soon be time for the toast.’ He looked about the room. ‘It’s definitely time for the picnic. I have it all prepared.’ With almost balletic steps, he moved to a darkened corner of the room and returned a moment later carrying a plate on which sat what appeared to be a trio of large and lumpen rotten oranges.
‘Nargisi kofta,’ he declared triumphantly, ‘Prince Eddy’s favourite – Narcissus meatballs!’
‘Ah,’ sighed Oscar, coming to the rescue once again. ‘Scotch eggs – Grecian style. Alas, we cannot. We must not. We’ve only recently become vegetarians and it’s too soon to break our vows.’ Widening his eyes, he looked directly at Sir Freddie: ‘But the toast we must share. Do you have any of Prince Eddy’s favourite wine?’
[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Page 23